


nothing gold can stay

by bonebo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-08 16:44:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7765432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mondatta finds an abused little omnic hiding in an alley.</p><p> </p><p>A few years later, he fucks him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cyberratting](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=cyberratting).



His first memory is of darkness, and the peace he has there.

Then suddenly his world blooms into being, color and sound and objects just there, and the first voice he hears is as vicious as the hands that wrap tightly around his delicate neck, mocking laughter of many that settles over him, heavy like the cold metal collar he's fitted with. He looks around, optics still adjusting to the world that is too-bright after his slumbering darkness, lines and borders blurred, and all he can see is a cage of flesh, warm bodies all around with voices too loud and harsh, spitting tides of words with no meaning at him. His newly-onlined systems struggle to sort through the overwhelming amount of input, forced to run before they know how to walk, and every noise that the voices make rings in his head, threatening to break him apart from the inside out.

He's grabbed by one arm, fingers squeezing his still-soft metal hard enough to leave indentions, and dragged through the bodies, watching in bewilderment as they part—the expressions fixed on him are ones he can't decipher, all toothy smiles and raised brows and bright eyes, moving mouths, but something in his core knows even now that nothing in them, in this place, is to be trusted.

He's afraid before his mind even knows what fear is.

What he does know is that he's small, fragile, helpless compared to the other bodies here, lacking their stature and their muscles and their numbers. They seem to know it too—by the way they grab at him, hands groping along his shiny new plates and lingering over delicate joints, voices jeering venom he can't place meaning to. He's shoved to a halt by the man leading him along, then suddenly snatched around the waist and hauled up, the room a blur around him as he's thrown bodily into another cage—this one made of wood and painfully small, forcing his legs to bend in at odd and painful angles. He cries out his distress in a series of warbling clicks and chirrups, and earns a slap hard enough to turn his head for his trouble.

A face peers down at him— _white smile blue eyes pale skin_ , he memorizes it, he hopes—and says very slowly, loud over all the noise:

“Welcome to our world, filthy omnic.”

A small metal ball is tossed into his cage, startling another click out of him. It beeps twice, red lights flashing dangerously before it explodes, taking his world with it and reducing him back to the safety of the darkness.

_

 

He's never told what his job is.

Oh, he's told what to do—by men and women and everything else, him sitting quiet in a dark room until they decide they have use of him, call him over with rough voices and rougher hands and bend him to whatever shape they decide he should be that day, take from him whatever they want and not care about what they leave behind. He's told how to look, by hands that strip away his clothes and daub bright paint over his face, tear away his modesty paneling— _”Whores don't need modesty,”_ he's told to a chorus of laughter, and it's as confusing as it is humiliating because he doesn't know what a _whore_ even is but if this is how they're treated, he doesn't want to be one.

(No one cares what he wants. They make sure to tell him so, multiple times a day, as if he could forget.)

In this world he's taught very quickly that his only purpose is to be hurt; to be used by his betters—seemingly everybody—and endure it with silence and obedience, no matter the pain or indignity of what they require of him. He learns to be afraid of raised hands and loud voices, of fists and the power behind them; he realizes that in this world everything is his enemy, yet he can defend himself against nothing.

These are the lessons that he's taught, and all that he knows when he's dumped onto the street; kicked out of a moving van in the lower, run-down part of the city by his owner's foot, rolling along the ground with just enough time to look up and see the man—the only family he's ever known—closing the doors and driving away.

Abandoning him.

He stares for a moment, systems stalling out as they try to process what just happened; he gets to his feet shakily, wincing at the grinding pain in his hips as he stands.

(It aches deeper, inside, hurts in places that are supposed to be hidden. He tries to push that pain from his mind, focus instead on the scraping of his joints.)

He looks around him at the wreckage he's been dumped into, as if it will give him clues. It's all abandoned warehouses and busted streets, things crawling through the shadows that make him hurry as he starts to walk up the street, feet moving aimlessly with no idea where he's at or where he's going. His scrambling processor finally pieces together that maybe if he was fast enough, he could chase the van, catch up to it and reunite with his owners—it's a fleeting, far-fetched thought, but its all he and his panicked heart have to hang on to.

So he runs, exposed metal of his bare feet slapping noisily against the pavement, trying to follow the direction the van had taken. He hangs on to his fragmented shard of hope and runs after the only life he's ever known, chasing the distant, fading sounds of the vehicle—and when they're gone, he keeps going, desperation and fear lending him energy his frame doesn't have.

He can't die out here. He has to get back. 

So he runs.

And he runs.

And he runs.


	2. Chapter 2

King's Row is lively and beautiful, and Mondatta is always saddened when he sees the squalor and injustice hiding just beneath the surface.

Today it's woefully easy to see—it's in the hateful graffiti sprayed along the buildings, the soft glow of small teal lights hiding fearfully in the shadows. It fills Mondatta with sorrow, to see his brethren so downtrodden; but it also reignites his fire, reminds him why he must keep working to bring about unity and change.

Mondatta is pulled from his thoughts by a wailing sort of trill that comes from an alley to his right. He pauses in his steps and peers down the alley with a wary sort of curiosity, helm tilting slightly as he tries to seek out the source of the cry; it had sounded young and utterly miserable, pitiful enough to make his heart ache.

Mondatta knows he can’t just ignore it.

“....is someone there?” he calls, cautiously; a shuffling noise answers him, and a dim flash of teal moves to his left, drawing his gaze over sharply. His hands  go up into a defensive position before he can stop it--but then he realizes that he’s staring down at the dirty, damaged face of another omnic. A young one, too, if its size is anything to go by, and Mondatta slowly lowers his hands, horrified.

The first thing he notices is the state of the little thing's frame; the wires hanging free and occasionally sparking as it moves, plating chipped and dented and buckled in places, the lights in its helm dim—a few of them cracked and dark, even. Mondatta can't recall ever seeing another omnic in such a state of disarray, and it makes him ache to think of how this young one even got to be in such a condition.

He's moving forward before he even realizes it, drawn to this little omnic with the busted-out lights and the sad-looking face. His approach seems to startle the little thing, who looks up with a scared little clicking noise, already trying to drag itself away; one of its legs hangs at an odd angle, heavy and motionless, twisted out of socket.

“Be at peace, little one,” Mondatta says softly, smoothly sinking down to his knees once he's within reach of the other omnic; this close he can see the caked-on fluids between those shaking thighs, the ragged edges of paneling torn away to leave the most sensitive parts on display. It makes his heart hurt. “I'm not going to hurt you.”

The little omnic looks over at him slowly, pausing in the attempt at escape—debating on trusting this stranger, Mondatta is sure. Looking over the little thing's abused and neglected frame, he completely understands why.

“Are you cold?” he asks, after a moment of silence, keeping his voice soft and as non-threatening as he can; Gods know the last thing he wants to do is upset this precious little being.

The answer comes after a hesitant pause: a series of trilling chirps, quiet and cautious but clear enough. Mondatta slides the thick white robe off his shoulder, unties the knot holding it closed—slowly, as to not frighten the skittish little being huddled in front of him—and reaches out to drape it over the smaller frame, hands gentle as they pull it snug, tie it closed.

“There. Is that better, now?”

The little omnic looks down at the new addition, another soft, curious click leaving him; Mondatta's robe is huge on the tiny frame, wraps around it and makes it look even smaller than it is, and if he wasn't so upset by the current state of affairs Mondatta would call the sight adorable. But then the little omnic looks up at him, a warbling kind of trill caught in its throat, and throws itself at him, burrowing into the soft clothing covering Mondatta's lap in a desperate attempt to get at the warmth the larger frame offers.

Mondatta draws back a little, startled by the sudden action. He hadn't expected the other omnic to be so trusting—but maybe it can sense the tranquility in Mondatta's aura, his desire to help. He slowly wraps his arms around the small frame, tucking the scared little being up against his bare chest, squeezing it tighter as it burrows against him.

“You do not belong here, little one,” Mondatta says softly, cradling the swaddled frame closer to his own with a desire to protect and nurture washing over him, settling deep in his core. He stands, keeping the smaller omnic's body held tight against his own as he turns and carries him—away from this place of grey and broken and hopeless, and back into the bright lights of King’s Row.

__

He doesn’t think twice about bringing the little thing to the monastery.

It’s met with the same sympathy and compassion Mondatta had first felt, his brothers and sisters all more than willing to help; but the little omnic shies away from their outstretched hands, hiding its face against Mondatta’s chest. After a trip to the infirmary to repair the worst of the damage--which had taken far too long for Mondatta, revealed wounds in places they should never be and made the poor little thing whimper--and a visit to the refectory to refill fuel tanks gone far too long without nourishment, Mondatta carries the omnic to his own private dormitory, gently setting it down on his bed and letting it look around, listening to the soft warbling clicks it makes in its throat. 

“My name is Mondatta,” he says, lying down on the bed as well, stretching out on his belly with the omnic sitting in front of him--making himself smaller, to hopefully give the little creature a bit more reassurance. It looks at him and tilts its head with a low chirrup; Mondatta suddenly gets the feeling he’s being sized up, scrutinized by the other. “Do you have a name, little one?”

Another series of clicks, all negative. Mondatta sighs.

“Well that won’t do, will it? We have to call you something…”

He trails off uncertainly, mulling over the options; he wants to pick a name the other would be proud to wear, something he could hold onto and glean meaning from. Something peaceful, something tranquil, something zen…

Mondatta straightens a little, struck by inspiration. “Zen...yatta,” he says slowly, tacking part of his name onto the other’s, in old Omnic tradition--a way to signify a familial bond before the Revolution, before they adopted the humans’ ways. “Tekhartha Zenyatta.”

Zenyatta looks up at him, the lights in his helm glowing brighter; he nods, slowly, clicking out the name as though he’s afraid that saying it aloud will break it, shatter this fragile new life that stumbled upon him in a dark alley. Mondatta hums, pleased. “Do you like it?”

Zenyatta’s response comes as he lunges forward, flinging his arms around Mondatta’s neck and hugging him tightly. He trills and clicks against the strong cables there in excitement, repeating his new name over and over, and Mondatta lets out a soft, rumbling sort of purr, hugging Zenyatta snugly against his chest.

“I take that to mean it has your approval,” he says warmly, running his hand over Zenyatta’s head as the smaller omnic nestles up against him, still wrapped in the oversized warmth of Mondatta’s cloak--as much as he finds the sight to be adorable, Mondatta knows that they should at least give Zenyatta some kind of dignity and cover up the exposed, vulnerable circuitry between his legs. Without any way to get clothes small enough to fit him on such short notice, Mondatta defaults to a back-up solution.

Keeping Zenyatta nestled against his breastplate, Mondatta stands again; he shifts the smaller omnic to one arm, and uses his now-free hand to tug at one of the soft sheets lining his bed, pulling it free with a few yanks. He sets Zenyatta back on his feet and crouches in front of him, reaching out with the sheet--but Zenyatta balks, taking a step back with a quiet series of confused, fearful clicks, and the hurt that Mondatta can hear in the sounds makes him ache all over again.

“No...Zenyatta, little one,” he starts softly, trying to ignore the way Zenyatta’s hands come down to cover the delicate places between his legs protectively, the betrayal he can feel in the other omnic’s aura. “I’m not going to hurt you--let me put this on you, and help you cover up. That’s all.”

Zenyatta replies in an uneasy series of clicks, his frame stiffening but staying still as Mondatta reaches out with the sheet again. When it brushes against the plating of Zenyatta’s hip the little omnic flinches, and Mondatta works fast to secure the sheet around his waist, shushing him as he pulls away.

“That’s it, very good, Zenyatta,” he praises, sitting back on his heels and giving the little omnic a pleased nod, watching as Zenyatta curiously looks down and tugs at the sheet tied around his hips. He rubs the cloth between his fingers, chirring softly to himself in low amazement, and Mondatta chuckles as he continues, “That was very brave of you, little one. I’m so proud.”

Zenyatta looks up then, chirping as if he’d just heard Mondatta speaking. He runs the few steps back to the larger omnic, climbing into his lap and hugging his neck again, trilling and chirruping happily as he tucks his head against Mondatta’s collar fairing. Mondatta squeezes the little omnic close as he stands again, his frame rumbling slightly with a happy hum.

“Zenyatta...since you’ve been such a good boy, would you like to go back down to the refectory and see if there’s any sweets to be had?”

The squeal that answers him can only be taken as a yes.


	3. THE PORN

Zenyatta has been looking forward to this day for weeks now.

At first he’d been nervous about getting his final frame upgrade, worried about the pain of seams familiarizing themselves again and having to re-learn how exactly his body worked, but now that it was all said and done he had to admit he was pleased with the changes. His legs were longer and more shapely, his joints sturdy and reinforced; gone was the frailness of his youth. Now his chest had been strengthened, plates laid thick over his internals to mimic muscle matching his might and every plate new and glossy, shining in the light of the hallway.

The new frame wasn’t all this day promised, though.

Zenyatta pulls in a steadying breath through his vents as he opens the door to Mondatta’s room, careful with his new legs as he walks inside; he feels awkward and lanky, still getting used to the way this frame moves, but a glance over at Mondatta--sitting cross-legged on his bed, hands folded neatly in his lap, serene--is enough to make his nerves settle.

Mondatta is here, had promised to show him the pleasures of his final frame. Zenyatta is sure it will be perfect.

“You look beautiful, little brother.”

Mondatta’s voice is soft, admiring even, as he slowly gets to his feet; he meets Zenyatta in the middle of the room like he’s too excited to wait, and the realization that the peaceful, ever-tranquil Mondatta is impatient for him is enough to make Zenyatta’s cooling fans kick on.

“I have waited for you for what feels like an eternity,” Mondatta whispers, hands soft as they settle over the strong cables in Zenyatta’s neck, trace through the gaps and make the younger omnic shiver. He links his own arms around Mondatta’s neck, thrilling at the closeness of their frames. “Waited to touch you, to show you pleasure...to show you how much I love you, my dear little one…”

His hands sweep lower, over the curve of Zenyatta’s shoulders and down his chest, fingertips tracing over the sensitive seams along Zenyatta’s sides; Zenyatta helplessly arches into the touches, chasing the feeling of Mondatta’s fingers as the older omnic slowly leads him back the bed left vacated earlier.

“You are so receptive,” Mondatta says, tone caught between amusement and delight; his hands settle on Zenyatta’s hips, fitting like they’ve always belonged there, squeezing the servos lovingly. Zenyatta gasps at the rush of warmth the action causes. “Always have been so responsive toward me, my precious Zenyatta…”

His hands move lower--and Zenyatta can’t help his sudden anxiety as Mondatta’s fingers grab the strings of his loose pants, deftly untie the knot holding them up. He makes a choked sort of noise--a nervous click caught in his throat--but Mondatta is immediately there to soothe the discomfort, nuzzling against Zenyatta’s neck warmly, his frame so solid and warm and close that Zenyatta’s unnamed, unspoken fear melts away.

“Do not be nervous, little one,” Mondatta murmurs, guiding Zenyatta’s pants down over the knobs of his hips, hands soothing as they smooth over every inch of newly-exposed metal. Zenyatta’s vents stutter when Mondatta’s fingertips graze over his pelvis, brush across the delicate circuitry between his thighs; but the touch is soft and fleeting, so quick that it makes Zenyatta long for more instead of dread what the contact will bring. “We will rewrite what you know, together. I will show you just how satisfying pleasures of the body can be.”

Zenyatta nods, pulling enough breath into his frame to reply with a soft, “Yes, Master...please.” He has to focus to keep his voice steady, his composure wrecked by the way Mondatta’s fingertips trace along the seams of his thigh plating, tug and tease ever so gently at the sensitive wires exposed there. The touches are electric, tiny pinpricks of sensation that his neural net can’t decipher, just substantial enough to be teasing.

Zenyatta’s knees feel weak enough to collapse, and Mondatta hasn’t even touched anywhere between his legs yet.

“Master…” He chokes the word out like a plea as Mondatta’s fingertips ghost back up his legs--touch darts between them, teasing light across the junction of hip and thigh, and Zenyatta’s vents stall out. “...Master--”

“Shh.” Mondatta’s hands leave Zenyatta’s frame long enough for both of them to mourn the loss, but it’s only to reach up and untangle Zenyatta’s own from their perch around Mondatta’s neck. The older omnic gives Zenyatta’s hands a squeeze, using them as leverage to slowly turn him around and coax him into sitting on the bed--Zenyatta looks up at his mentor as he settles on the edge, feeling all at once horribly exposed and vulnerable, but excited and eager to put himself in Mondatta’s hands. It’s a heady sort of longing anxiety that’s strong enough to make his fingers tremble where they grip at the bedsheets, and he watches with baited breath as Mondatta sinks to his knees in front of him, expecting the older omnic to immediately pry his thighs apart and get to work.

Instead, Mondatta leans forward enough to nuzzle against one of Zenyatta’s knees, saddened by the tension he feels there, nearly strong enough to make Zenyatta’s plating rattle.

“My dearest one,” he murmurs, gazing up at Zenyatta patiently, setting his hands on the younger omnic’s knees to rub soothing circles against the servos there. “Why do you fret so? This is not an experience you are required to endure. If you truly do not wish to partake in these activities, we can stop. There will be no harm done.”

Zenyatta pauses for a moment--just sits and stares at Mondatta, his beloved mentor, settled on the floor at his feet and telling him in no uncertain terms that everything can stop, everything he’s waited for can be given up in an instant. He’s touched by the selflessness.

But more than that, he’s hungry for what Mondatta can do to him.

“No--Master, please. I want this.” He sounds needy to his own audials, can only imagine how it comes across to Mondatta--but the older omnic simply hums in thought, his hands stilling over Zenyatta’s knees. “Please--show me that it can be good. That it doesn’t…” He hesitates, then adds quietly, “...show me that it doesn’t have to hurt, Master.”

And it’s like breaking a dam.

Mondatta surges forward, hands grabbing at Zenyatta’s hips to hold him steady as he leans up, nuzzling along the young omnic’s chestplate; he can feel the other’s sigh as it rattles through him, and slowly works his way down the young body, rubbing along every smooth plane of metal to familiarize himself with it, leave no part of Zenyatta’s beautiful body unloved. When he reaches the slender thighs, a light touch to one knee is all it takes to open them--Zenyatta spreads before him like a blooming flower, and Mondatta lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, leaning back to just admire the view.

He brings a hand down off Zenyatta’s hip, after a moment; settles it lightly over the young omnic’s modesty panelling, delights in the heat he can feel building behind it. “Why don’t you open this for me, little one? Let me see all of you.”

Zenyatta nods like his voice has been stolen, and Mondatta removes his hand just in time to watch the delicate panelling fold away--revealing to him Zenyatta’s most intimate pieces. His cock is slender and silver as the majority of his frame, lit by glowing teal nodes that trail up the golden underside and already stiff enough to curve up toward his abdominal plating; below it his small intake valve is nestled, plated in the same gleaming silver and trimmed in polished gold. The soft, rubbery interior shines slightly with his body’s produced lubricant, teal biolights and sensory nodes lining the valve’s rim and glowing softly against the inky black of his inner walls. Mondatta pulls a shaky breath through his vents at the sight, then tears his gaze away to look up at Zenyatta, noting the way the young omnic has his face hidden behind his hands, helm shyly turned away.

“Zenyatta.” Mondatta’s voice is soft, but when it draws no reaction from his student, he repeats again, “Zenyatta, dearest one. There is nothing to be ashamed of. Even here, you are...simply beautiful.”

Mondatta notices the way Zenyatta reacts--his cooling fans kicking on a notch higher, the lights over his helm shining just that much brighter in response to the words--and it only serves to heighten his own desire; he wants to make his precious student feel so good that he can forget all the times he hasn’t, overwrite every memory that says these actions hurt. Mondatta keeps his gaze there, watching, as he trails his fingers over the inside of one sleek thigh, feeling Zenyatta shiver beneath his touch.

When his fingertips finally move closer, brushing up the underside of Zenyatta’s twitching cock, it pulls a sharp gasp from the young omnic; his thighs quake with the effort it takes to keep them from snapping closed, and Mondatta finds himself proud beyond words of his student’s control. As a reward he gently wraps his hand around the base of the warm metal, giving the stiff shaft a few slow, gliding strokes and watching the way Zenyatta arches up into every one.

It’s a beautiful sight--the planes of Zenyatta’s abdomen and pelvis flexing as he rolls his hips up to meet Mondatta’s hand, his helm lying back, exposing the sharp lines of the strong cables making up his neck. The air that puffs out of his vents is warm like the sun, and Mondatta relishes it, savours the physical proof that he has brought Zenyatta pleasure.

“Does it feel good?” he asks, knowing the answer but wanting to hear it, craving the admission--and Zenyatta, his perfect Zenyatta, ever loathe to disappoint, answers him with a breathy, “Yes, Master, please--please don’t stop…”

Mondatta hums softly, pleased. Watching the way his beloved student responds so prettily to his touches, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to.

__

They end up changing positions more than what is probably necessary, but Mondatta would be lying if he said he cared.

Settled on his knees over Zenyatta’s hips, with the young omnic laid out on the bed before him--it’s his favorite arrangement so far, with the way it holds Zenyatta spread out and so visible, making it nigh impossible for Mondatta to miss any breathless noises or overstimulated twitches of his frame. Zenyatta’s worked up to the point of no return under him, his fans on their highest setting and his vents puffing out thin clouds of steam, gaze fixed on Mondatta in a way both hungry and pleading; Mondatta’s not far behind him, aroused more than even he thought he would be by how he’s been teaching his student the pleasures of his frame.

“Are you ready for me, dear one?” he asks, as his own modesty panelling folds away; he sighs at the blissful release of pressure, and reaches down to give himself an appeasing stroke, noting how Zenyatta’s gaze stays fixated on his stiff cock as he nods. “Ah ah...say it, Zenyatta. Tell me…”

“Master…” His hips arch up weakly, seeking the warmth of Mondatta’s wet valve above him, hands going to settle on Mondatta’s thighs restlessly. “Please, Master...I’m ready. Please.”

Mondatta spends a moment to just look at Zenyatta, sweep his gaze down him from helm to hips; he’s needy, and gorgeous, and Mondatta is struck again by just how much he loves him. He would give this boy the world, he realizes, with a rush of affection--but giving him his body will have to do.

He sinks down onto Zenyatta’s synthetic cock slowly, moaning softly as it drags along the sensor nodes that line his valve, lighting them up one by one; but his own noise is drowned out by Zenyatta, who lets out a gasping cry like he’s been wounded, hands shooting out to grab at Mondatta’s hips and hang on almost hard enough to dent.

“Master--Master…” Mondatta’s hips drop lower, forcing Zenyatta deeper inside him until finally their frames meet; Mondatta tips his helm back with an airy, pleased sigh at the long-missed feeling of being full, and Zenyatta quivers beneath him, chanting his lover’s title like a breathless mantra. Mondatta braces himself with one hand splayed across Zenyatta’s chestplates, feeling the thrum of Zenyatta’s living essence below him, before he slowly starts to roll his hips, gliding smoothly over the hot length buried inside him. He can hear the way Zenyatta’s vents stutter and stall out as he moves, and rocks himself quicker over his student’s hips, huffing out a moan of his own when the nodes of his valve are brushed against just right.

It doesn’t take long for Zenyatta to crest--clinging to Mondatta’s hips and practically sobbing his name as he jerks his hips up, filling up Mondatta with a rush of hot fluid. He stays there for a few drawn-out moments, frame locked up against his mentor’s, before he sags back down to the bed and pants; Mondatta is content to sit and watch him, humming quietly at the feeling of Zenyatta’s fluid shifting inside him.

Once Zenyatta has gathered enough of himself to speak, he looks to Mondatta and blearily, almost guiltily says, “Master...I-I’m sorry, I..I wanted you to finish, too…”

Mondatta chuckles lightly, giving his hips a roll that has Zenyatta struggling for air again.

“Oh, my precious student….we’re only getting started.”


End file.
